


Draw Me A Map

by fairy_tale_echo



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Epic, Epistolary, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Settlement, Slow Burn, World Travel, spanning years and continents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairy_tale_echo/pseuds/fairy_tale_echo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hey, I'll write.</i>
</p><p>The thousands of miles, both literal and figurative, Mark and Eduardo travel and the countless postcards and letters they write over five years as they grow up and towards each other. How do you get yourself back to a place you haven't been yet? </p><p>
  <i>"Don't you ever just want to go?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2006

**October 2006**  
   
Just a few more times.  He’ll just press refresh a few more times.  He has some other programs running in the background and he can toggle between them and his Facebook page, so he’ll do that and it will be just like working, right? He’ll just hang out in this conference room and refresh his Facebook page a few more times.  
  
Maybe Erica Albright will respond to his friend request by then.  
  
It will give him something to think about besides how, apparently, every jury in the world would think he’s an asshole, something besides the way Eduardo’s voice had turned into a soft whisper and he’d turned his back on Mark, something besides _you’re just trying so hard to be_.  
  
He’s _not_.  
  
And he’ll prove it.  Being friends with Erica Albright will _prove_ he’s not trying to be an asshole and then – and then –  he doesn’t have anything past that.  So, he’ll just press refresh a few more times until – until –  
  
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Eduardo says from behind him.  
  
\--  
  
Mark looks across the table and notices Eduardo’s very expensive looking suit jacket draped over the chair he was sitting in.  Mark slams his laptop closed.  
  
“Aren’t you probably, like, legally prohibited from speaking to me?” Mark grits out.  
  
Eduardo pays him no mind.  “You’re sitting alone in a dark conference room trying to _friend_ Erica Albright,” Eduardo says, rolling the word, the verb, _friend,_ off his tongue with a bitter touch of disbelief.  “This is too good to be true.”  
  
“Says the guy who had to come back for a jacket.  What’s the problem, Eduardo, can’t afford more than one suit?” Mark snaps.  
  
Eduardo doesn’t bother to respond as he walks around the table and towards his jacket.  As he carefully takes the jacket from the chair he looks at Mark with contempt.  “Not like I’d expect you to understand, but this is a very expensive designer suit so,”  
  
“Oh?  Is it _Prada_?” Mark practically snarls, loading the single word with all his frustration. He’s hoping, in that second, to hurt Eduardo.  _You’re just trying so hard to be_.  Mark pushes his chair back from the table almost viciously, stands up and feels bile well up in the back of his throat.  
  
But Eduardo doesn’t even blink.  His eyes go soft and he quirks his mouth into a tiny smile.  “This is a custom Tom Ford, actually.  Prada is for _amateurs_ who don’t know any better.  My Armani, however, _is_ at the cleaners.”  
  
And it’s so fucking _dismissive_ ; it’s like Mark’s not even there, like Mark doesn’t even matter.  And Mark – Mark doesn’t want to be an asshole.  He’s trying _not_ to be.  He doesn’t want to hurl insults and try to make Eduardo’s face crumple.  He remembers how it felt, just hours ago, when Eduardo _did_ look almost broken and he doesn’t _ever_ want to see that again, much less feel like he’s the reason it happened.  He just wants – he wants Eduardo to know _he’s trying not to be an asshole._  
  
“We’re going to settle,” he blurts out, hoping that will somehow get his message across, somehow make up for the depositions and the humiliations and the angry looks and the long silences.   
  
But instead of falling at his feet in gratitude, hell, instead of looking even slightly mollified, Eduardo just scoffs.  “Of _course_ you’re gonna settle, Mark.  You _had_ to have known that from the beginning.  You … you cut me out.  Besides the fact it was a total asshole move – it was _clearly_ illegal. C’mon, you’re smart enough to know you were going to have to settle.”  
  
“I didn’t think…” Mark swallows hard, decides he has to tell the truth anyway.  “I didn’t really think it was ever going to get this far.  I thought –”  
  
Eduardo laughs, not his real laugh, though, but a contemptuous, sharp sound, interrupting Mark’s stuttering explanation.  “You thought what?  I’d just walk away and not -”  
  
But now it’s Mark who cuts Eduardo off.  He slams his open palm down on the table; it makes a loud echo in the empty room.  “I thought you’d be happy that you had even .3% of a business that was going to be worth _billions_!  I thought you’d be happy that you didn’t have to be bothered with a business you obviously cared so little about!”  
  
He knows it sounds stupid now: after all these depositions, after the way Eduardo smashed his laptop.  He knows how little that means.  But that’s the truth.   
  
Now Eduardo is just staring at Mark, an unreadable expression on his face.  “Mark,” he begins slowly.  “Do you – do you remember what it felt like when you found out I’d frozen the account?”  
  
In that second, it all comes flooding back.  The bewilderment, the embarrassment, the powerlessness.  Standing there with the teller saying, _“I’m sorry sir, that account has been frozen.”_   Knowing it could have only been Eduardo who froze it – it was like someone had thrown cold water in his face.  Eduardo didn’t want to be part of Facebook, Eduardo didn’t even want to talk to him about it – it was all falling apart and it was all going to fail and – yeah.  Mark remembers that.   
  
“Of course,” he says, tersely.  
  
“That’s how I felt that night, Mark.  But worse.  A hundred times worse.  I’d signed those stupid papers months ago,  
but you were still pretending everything was normal in the meantime.  You – you let me think,” Eduardo’s voice cracks a little here, he looks down at his feet and swallows hard. 

“I know it didn’t feel like business to you when I froze the accounts, Mark, and the dilution?  That – that didn’t feel like business either.  It wasn’t about billions or shareholders or incorporations or anything like that.  It was about _us_ and this? This thing we’re doing now?” He motions in the wide space between them, the huge table.  “It’s still only _vaguely_ about the money. And if you haven’t figured that out, we really don’t have anything else to say.”

  
Mark rolls that feeling over in his mind for a moment: the way he’d felt so suddenly cut adrift, the way he’d, deep down, blamed himself, _“you must’ve done something really fucked up to make him do this”_ , and then felt anger and shame about _that_.  Mark _feels_ all that again and then he imagines that feeling drastically magnified, imagines it happening not just without warning but at a time when he was prepared for a celebration, imagines it being _forever_ , not fixable with one call and an argument.   
  
And he feels then, staring at Eduardo across that conference table in the half-dark, the slightest bit of what Eduardo might have felt that night and since that night, now that everything has crumbled and fallen away into recrimination and anger.  
  
Man, Mark’s an asshole.  
  
But he’s not _trying_ to be.  He doesn’t _have_ to be.  He can _do_ something about that.  
  
This is what he can do.   
  
“Eduardo.  I’m so fucking sorry.”  
  
\--  
  
Mark’s not sure what he expects next, he just knows that was something he had to say.  Eduardo stares at him for an endless moment and then turns his back on Mark to look out the windows.  It’s almost completely dark now and the lights of Palo Alto are bright outside the building.  If it wasn’t so absolutely quiet in the room, Mark’s not sure he would have heard Eduardo’s soft exhale, but he can’t miss the way his posture relaxes.   
  
“You know that’s all – that’s all I ever wanted you to say.”  Eduardo’s voice is quiet and steady.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mark tries to keep his voice from trembling, “For not giving you a … a more honest chance to be CFO.”  
  
“We _both_ messed up the business part, Mark.  I didn’t always make great choices and I wasn’t always the CFO I could have been.” Eduardo still won’t turn to face him.  
  
“And I’m sorry about the – the not business part too.  I’m sorry I made you feel,” Mark’s stupid voice cracks here, even as hard as he’s trying to keep it level, and he’s unable to find a word that encompasses the feeling.  Maybe instead he should just say … “I’m sorry I wasn’t the friend I should have been.”  
  
Eduardo takes a few deep, slow breaths and Mark watches his shoulders tremble.  Finally, he turns to face Mark, his eyes bright with what look suspiciously like unshed tears.  “Thank you,” he chokes out.  “I needed to hear that.”  
  
Mark shrugs, gracelessly, tries to look nonchalant.  “So, hey, let’s drop the lawsuits and get some drinks.”  
  
He’s _kidding_ , he really is, but as soon as he blurts it out he wishes he could take it back.  There’s a moment where everything seems to stop, where the darkness and the wrongness stretches out in front of him and Mark just doesn’t _know_ and then –  
  
Then Eduardo laughs.   
  
\--  
  
“It wouldn’t work,” he tells Mark. He starts to ramble, a disbelieving half-smile slipping around the corners of his mouth.  “There are far too many people involved now: too many investors and shareholders.  We could never just – and what?  You’d give me some random number of shares or a lump sum or something?  Too complicated, we’re too far into it.  It would never work.  We have to – they’re out working on settlement papers right now.  You know that, right?  I figured you must, that you had someone on retainer brave enough to tell you and that’s why you mentioned settling when I came in.”  
  
Still carefully holding his jacket draped over one arm, Eduardo talks while walking around the table and back to where  
Mark is standing.  
  
Mark doesn’t say anything and suddenly he’s startled by how close Eduardo is to him, face to face.  They haven’t been this close in so long.   
  
“I was mostly kidding.  I know we can’t –” Mark stops short and runs a hand through his hair, feeling more awkward than ever.  “But I’ll settle.  I’ll make sure – it’ll be fair.”  
  
Eduardo reaches over and punches Mark, lightly, on the shoulder.  “Hell yeah it’ll be fair.   _I_ won’t settle for less.”   
  
Then Eduardo smiles at Mark, a playful grin Mark remembers from countless nights at school and Mark actually feels a physical _ache­_ in his chest, something that stings like happiness.   
  
“I – I –” Mark doesn’t know why this part is so hard to say.  “I _wasn’t_ kidding about the drinks, though.”  
  
“We’re not going out for drinks, Mark.”  And Mark guesses his face must have fallen, because Eduardo quickly continues, “Um, not tonight.  I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks and I bet you haven’t either.  Let’s both go sleep and see about – um, tomorrow after the papers, maybe?”  
  
“I’m not that…” Mark tries to protest, but Eduardo just rolls his eyes and laughs again.  
  
“Please do not try to bullshit _me_ , of all people, about how tired you are and when you slept last.  Sleep.  Tonight.  Then tomorrow we can settle up for a few hundred million dollars and go to get drinks, okay?”  
  
“I’m really not …” Mark doesn’t want to let tonight go.  What if this is, like, Groundhog’s Day or a fever dream and he comes in tomorrow and Eduardo’s eyes are empty and cold again?   
  
Like so many times before, it’s as if Eduardo can figure out all the weird thoughts buzzing in Mark’s brain just from the way his eyes are darting around and his posture has changed.  “Hey, Mark.  Come on.”   
  
And he does that _Wardo-thing_ that Mark’s been pretending he forgot; where he leans in and claps Mark on the shoulder and holds his gaze for a few seconds.  _How long has it fucking been_ , Mark thinks, suddenly very grateful for this point of contact.  It’s weird, though, because when Eduardo _used_ to do that, it would slow his thoughts down or snap him back into the present moment but _now_ , at this first touch in so long, for some reason, it feels like the opposite is happening: his pulse is racing and he feels almost delirious.   
  
“Sleep, Mark,” Eduardo continues, his voice taking on a familiar, soothing tone.  “Not just lying on the couch with the laptop.  Go back to your place and actually sleep.  And remember I can tell when you haven’t really slept, asshole.”  
  
Then he releases Mark’s shoulder and smirks at him, as if to seal the deal.  Mark has never thought the word “asshole” sounded so good.  
  
\--  
  
Marilyn Delpy greets him bright and early at 8 AM with his morning Mountain Dew (can’t have Red Bull in the morning, that’s just gross) and a suspicious look on her face.  “Good morning, Mr. Zuckerberg.  You’re…on time.  And you look … well-rested.”  Mark can hear her trying to disguise the confusion in her voice.  
  
“I am, Ms. Delpy.  I slept for almost five hours last night.”  
  
Marilyn Delpy is definitely looking at him as if he’s grown a second head.  
  
Mark plunges ahead before she can call security to verify his identity.  “I had time to really reflect on what you said before you left yesterday.  It was, well, brave.  And I’ve decided you’re wasting your talents here.  You should come to Facebook.  We value your kind of no-bullshit honesty.  I think you could do great things for us and I know we’ll do great things for you.  So, what do you think?”  
  
Marilyn Delpy’s mouth actually drops open and she gives a quick gasp of surprise.  “You – are you – of course you are because you never kid about Facebook and – are you sure you’re really you?  Of course you are because this isn’t a Philip K. Dick story and – oh my God.”  
  
Great, now Mark’s made his new in-house counsel hyperventilate.  
  
Marilyn leans forward a little and takes a deep breath. “All right.  Like a grown-up, Marilyn,” she half whispers to herself.  “Mr. Zuckerberg, thank you for your generous offer.  I appreciate it.  But I am going to have to take some time to discuss this with my fiancé and think it over.  Perhaps you could put a formal offer in place while I –”  
  
Mark waves a hand at her.  “Decisive action, Ms. Delpy.  That’s what I’ll require of you as part of my in-house counsel team.  Yes or no.  We’ll work the rest out after that.  It’s better than spending the rest of your career here, as Sy’s lackey.  We have _fun_.  And I’ll give you some shares too.  Employee perk!”  
  
Mark has a moment to worry that she might go back to almost hyperventilating or, worse, get herself so worked up she actually hyperventilates and tips over.  Instead she nods once, firmly, and sticks out her hand.  “Accepted.”  
  
Mark shakes.   
  
“Great.  You can call me Mark now.  I’m glad to have you on board; I think we’re both going to be pleased with this arrangement.  So now that you’re my lawyer and not this firm’s?  I need you to pass this note to Eduardo after we’ve signed all the papers, okay?”  
  
There’s that weird almost-hyperventilating noise again.  
  
\--  
  
 _There.  We did it. Now can we have beers?  Here’s my address and new cell phone number._  
 _-Mark_  
 _PS: I slept six hours last night!_  
  
\--  
  
A few hours later, Mark is sitting in a private conference room, coding with his earphones on, waiting for Marilyn to return with all his copies.  It’s weird to think that when it came down to it, all it took was fifteen minutes of signing and initialing and everything, even the stuff with the Winklevii, was over.  It’s not even noon yet.  
  
He’d had to grit his teeth to sign anything relating to the Winkelvii and Divya.  “No!  They don’t deserve a penny!”  Mark had surprised himself by shouting when Sy finished explaining the terms and conditions of their settlement.  He thought he was all ready to do this.  But now, settling with the Winklevii and Divya seemed wrong.  Settling with Eduardo – that was _fair._ He didn’t want something that felt unfair to get mixed up or lumped in with that. “I won’t settle with _them_!  Let’s go to court!”  
  
Marilyn had smiled tightly and pulled Mark aside.  When Sy tried to intervene she gave him a condescending look.  “I believe I already submitted my resignation, Mr. Ableman.  I am here now at Mr. Zuckerberg’s request to act as personal counsel and, as such, do not need your permission to speak with my client.”   
  
 _“Relatively speaking, Mark, what you’re paying them is_ less _than a speeding ticket. You have to let this part go.  You know you didn’t steal from them, but you_ did _stall them.  The sooner we settle the better it looks for you.  I really have a feeling even settling won’t ‘settle’ for these guys and the longer_ they _keep this going, the worse it is for them.  Don’t play into it.  You could come out of this the PR winner, which is invaluable. So just sign and get this part done with.”_  
  
He knew hiring her was a smart move.   
  
He signed, his hand tight and his mouth pulled down.  
  
\--  
  
Sy and Gretchen give each other pointed looks when the explanation of Eduardo’s settlement is over.  “Let me stress that the most important part, besides the money and all the shares of course, is returning Mr. Saverin’s name as a co-founder to the masthead,” Gretchen says, her voice oily with satisfaction.  She slides her gaze to Eduardo, who looks well-rested himself.   
  
Mark is determinedly avoiding looking at Eduardo so he doesn’t smile and ruin everything.  He bites his lip to keep from blurting out, satisfaction in _his_ tone, “I already coded it back in last night, it’ll take three keystrokes to make it public.”  
  
He signs instead and it’s as easy as writing code.  
  
\--  
  
There’s a tap on his shoulder and Mark pulls his headphones off and sees Marilyn Delpy behind him, looking a little dazed.   
  
“He – he – wrote back.”   
  
She holds the note out.  
  
\--  
  
On the back side of the original note Eduardo has scrawled out:  
  
\--

 _Mark,_  
 _Tonight, for once, you’re buying the pizza and the beer.  Get out of the office at a decent hour…we’re not hanging out at 2 AM.  Make it 7:30.  You can invite Dustin and Chris too._  
 _-E_  
 _PS: I like that you hired this lawyer to, apparently, pass notes._  
 _PPS: I know you slept less than five hours, asshole._  
  
Mark folds it up three times and slips it, carefully, in his laptop bag.   
  
“Let’s get to the office;” Mark tells Marilyn.  “I have a lot of work to do.”  
  
Then he beams at her and she stares dumbfounded for a second.   
  
He realizes this is maybe the first time she’s ever seen him smile.  
  
\--  
  
When they arrive at Facebook, Mark leaves Marilyn in the capable hands of his assistant Janice.  Then he shouts for Dustin and Chris to meet him in his office.  He knows they’re pretending to be working while actually waiting to hear about what happened with the lawyers and the potential settlement.  
  
“Hey man,” Dustin says softly, sitting down in one of the chairs across from Mark’s desk.  
  
Chris clicks the door shut behind them.  “Hey Mark, you doing all right?”  
  
He’s momentarily puzzled before he remembers they have no idea what’s changed in the last 24 hours.   
  
“Oh yeah, fine.  But I have to get to work.  I’m already behind and we’re leaving early tonight.”  
  
Chris nods and sits down next to Dustin.  “Good idea, Mark.  We should take some time tonight to let everything settle and try to process.”  
  
Dustin sighs.  “What Chris meant to say was, yeah, we’ll cut out early and go get so drunk we can’t stand up.”  
  
“No,” Mark says, not bothering to look up from his desk where he’s hurriedly unpacking his laptop.  “Eduardo’s coming  
over for pizza and beers and you’re both invited.  I just wanted to let you guys know we’re meeting at 7:30 at my place.  Do you think I can get beer delivered or I should have Janice go buy some?”   
  
\--   
  
Dustin and Chris react simultaneously, their voices running into each other.  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Dustin exclaims.  
  
“Mark, I know it’s been rough, but you shouldn’t joke about this!” Chris scolds.  
  
“I’m not joking.  I’m not kidding.” Mark plugs in his laptop and logs on.  Only then does he turn to look at Dustin and Chris, who are now staring at him, disbelief and shock etched in their faces.  
  
He shrugs.  “Last night we talked.  Everything’s gonna be okay now.”  
  
“It’s going to be – he was suing you for half a billion – you diluted his shares – it’s going to be –  we’ve been involved in this fucking lawsuit for almost two years and now you say – ‘okay’ _–_ ” Dustin is sputtering in disbelief, unable to finish a sentence.  
  
Mark can see Chris holding onto the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles are white.  His tone is razor-sharp.   
  
“What Dustin meant to say was: did Eduardo drop the suit? Did you settle?  Is he just going to move into the office next door?”  
  
Mark thinks of Eduardo’s ramblings from the night before.  “I don’t actually know what Eduardo is planning to do next.  But we settled.  We couldn’t just drop it.  Dustin’s right, we’ve been doing this for two years and there’s way too much legal shit and too many shareholders and interested parties involved to drop it so we – Facebook – we settled.  But we talked about it last night and, um, besides,” Mark looks away, back to his computer.  “I made mistakes.  I didn’t do… anyway. I said ... sorry. And," he takes a deep breath. "I gave Eduardo 5.5% of Facebook and money too and…and…he’s back on the masthead with us.”  
  
And that seems to stop Dustin and Chris in their tracks, the room goes entirely silent except for the low whirr of Mark’s computer.  He takes a few breaths, waits a few seconds, then decides to look at them again.  
  
Chris is looking at him with a look Mark can’t identify at first.   It’s not a smile, exactly, but it’s an approving look all the same.  It’s _pride_ , Mark understands.  Chris is proud of him.  Dustin has his face scrunched up and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose and Mark realizes he’s fighting back tears.   
  
He remembers the four of them in the suite in Kirkland that first night, leaning in to the computer, watching Facemash crash the servers.  And now Mark, seeing the looks on Chris and Dustin’s faces, knows, he _really_ knows, that it wasn’t just him and Eduardo caught up in this, it wasn’t just the two of them suffering.   
  
“Oh, Mark.  That’s good.  That’s _so_ good.” Chris exhales, a smile finally breaking across his face.  
  
Dustin stands up suddenly, clears his throat loudly.  “Yeah, man.  Way to _own_ that shit.  It’s about god-damn time.  This calls for a celebration, motherfuckers.  I’ll – I’ll bring the beer.  Now let’s get to work so we can get out of here tonight.”  
  
Mark nods at his best friends.  He couldn’t have said it better himself.  
  
\--  
  
For the first time _ever_ , Mark leaves the offices before Dustin and Chris.  It’s his house, after all.  
  
While he’s still renting (It’s renting long term.  The place is four blocks from the office and he signed a five year lease, which he had made up special) and he knows the expectation is that there will be mismatched furniture and nothing on the walls, but he bought an amazingly huge and comfortable couch to go with the incredible multi-media area in the living room and, well, once he was in the store, why not get the whole furniture set?  Then he figured he might as well treat himself to a great mattress and that led to a bedroom set, which lead to this really great home office set-up that anyone in the world would be jealous of and he has a pool so he might as well make sure the backyard is landscaped and – yeah, _Architectural Digest_ should be calling soon.   
  
Still, he wants to make sure everything is in order, that there are video games and ice and movies and the pizza is ordered on time and everything is ready – and – that Eduardo’s not on his steps, waiting and looking at him with disapproving “ _Forgot again, huh?”_ eyes.  
  
So, yeah, Mark leaves first.  
  
\--  
  
Dustin, Chris, and Mark are milling around Mark’s kitchen, trying not to look nervous.  Chris brought several bags of chips and Girl Scout cookies he’s been hoarding and Dustin assured Mark he’d found a place that delivered beer.  The pizza should be here within 30 minutes or less (if the pizza boy knows what’s good for him) and Eduardo is currently fifteen minutes late.  
  
Dustin and Chris think that Mark can’t see them exchanging nervous side-glances.  He wants to ask them if they think he’s delusional, if they’re planning to call a doctor if Eduardo doesn’t show up.   
  
But Mark thinks of Eduardo standing across from him in the low light on the boardroom the night before.  He remembers the relief in his shoulders.  He knows he’ll be here any –  
  
The doorbell rings, causing Dustin and Chris to jump.   
  
“It’s too soon to be the pizza!” Dustin shouts with relief and excitement.  
  
Before Mark or Chris can respond, he’s bounding out of the kitchen and racing for the front door. Mark follows right after him with Chris trailing behind.  Just as Dustin’s flinging the door open, Mark sees Eduardo over his shoulder.  He rushes forward too, but feels Chris tugging him back towards the kitchen.  
  
“Just – give them a minute alone, okay?” Chris says, gently.  
  
For a split second, Mark wants to ask why.  What could they possibly need a minute alone for?  Then he sees Dustin lean forward and wrap Eduardo up in a bear hug.  As Chris grabs Mark’s sleeve and tugs him back, he hears Dustin’s voice, choked with tears, “I am so, so sorry, man.  I can _never_ say sorry enough – I didn’t know until after you’d signed but I spent all those months _knowing_ and I couldn’t, but I _should_ have said something and I am _so_ fucking sorry for all this shit and I’ve missed you and  – ”  
  
 _Oh._  
  
Dustin keeps rambling and Mark stands stock-still, unable to move away.  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
Then Eduardo’s arms go around Dustin and Mark sees him squeezing back and suddenly he doesn’t want to see this at all and he turns and hurries back to the kitchen.   
  
\--  
  
After a few minutes, Dustin and Eduardo make their way into the kitchen.  Dustin is red-faced and even Mark can tell he’s been crying.  Chris breaks the tension by walking quickly over to Eduardo and pulling him into a casual hug.   
  
“Hey, Eduardo, it’s good to see you.”  
  
“Yeah, Chris, you too,” Eduardo answers easily.  
  
Mark knows that Chris and Eduardo remained friends while they were both back at Harvard.  Chris never talked about it and so Mark was never sure how close they were, exactly, but they seem completely comfortable with each other now.   
  
Now Eduardo turns to Mark and it’s _real_ – it’s _really real_ : Eduardo standing in his kitchen in California with a few hundred million dollars settled between them.   
  
Mark rubs the back of his neck, shrugs awkwardly.  “Um – glad you – uh – hey, I mean.”  
  
Eduardo’s smile is wide and warm.  “I was promised pizza,” he says.  
  
Before Mark can respond that is really _is_ on the way, the doorbell rings again.  
  
\--  
  
The four of them all head back down the hall to the door.  As soon as Mark opens the door, Chris and Eduardo burst out in laughter.  
  
Mark sighs.  “Dustin, when you said you found a place that delivered beer, did you mean a keg?”  
  
“Dude,” Dustin defends, “it’s beer.  
  
There’s an athletic girl delivering the keg, which is on a flat, metal dolly.  The girl is all business; she barely spares them a glance, looking down at her clipboard.  “I have an order for, let’s see…Tyler Durden.  _Really_?  Tyler Durden?  This better not be a prank order.”  
  
“No, no,” Chris assures her.  “It’s just – he’s – I am sure he prepaid,” Chris goes on, pointing towards Dustin, who is grinning proudly, “He’s just a fifteen year old boy at heart, so…”  
  
“Nuh-uh,” Dustin interrupts.  “It was so we could be incognito and shit!”  
  
The girl looks up from the clipboard and gives the four of them an appraising onceover.  Mark can only imagine what a mismatched sight they must make: Chris in business casual, Wardo in one of his expensive suits, Mark in a ratty old hoodie, Dustin in jeans and a t-shirt.   
  
“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow.  “You four needed to be incognito?”  
  
“Totally,” Dustin says, grinning at her.  
  
“Because the four of you are … famous?” She asks, incredulously.  
  
“Absolutely,” Dustin nods.  Mark knows Dustin is trying to charm the keg delivery girl so he’s not surprised by what he tells her next.  “We invented Facebook.”  
  
Mark’s not even surprised it works.  Her face lights up.  “No way!”  
  
But Mark isn’t here so Dustin can woo the keg delivery girl.  He wants to hang out with his friends, play video games, eat Thin Mints and pizza, and, he guesses, drink a keg of beer.  That means it’s time to nip this in the bud.  
  
“ _Yeah_ way,” Mark says, stepping back and impatiently motioning her inside the house, “we’re the founders.  Mark Zuckerberg, Dustin Moskovitz, Chris Hughes, and Eduardo Saverin.  The four of us.  Check the masthead.”  
  
It’s a split second, but there’s no way Mark can miss how Eduardo’s face lights up, how even Chris and Dustin seem to be smiling a little brighter at how easily, how naturally, the reassurance, the statement of fact, falls from his lips.   
  
Actually, now that Mark thinks about it – that makes him feel pretty damn good too.  
  
\--  
  
They’ve been gaming, movie-watching, drinking, teasing, eating, and fighting for five hours and it feels, to Mark, like ten minutes.   
  
Eduardo has excused himself and stepped out Mark’s back door.  (“I desperately need some fresh air,” Eduardo said, setting down his XBox controller, standing up from the couch and stretching.  Dustin, already back to being completely comfortable around him, hadn’t even looked up from _Halo_.  “Yeah, sure, that’s what all losers say,” he’d tossed off.  The weirdest part was how that calling Eduardo a loser didn’t feel awkward or send a wave of silence over the room.  It just felt like the normal jibes that accompanied a Friday night of hanging out.)  
  
Mark drops his controller too and just takes a second to let the sounds of Dustin and Chris smack-talking wash over him.  He feels loose, relaxed, and happy in a way he hasn’t felt in so long.   
He thinks he needs some fresh air too.  
  
“Hey,” Mark says, coming up next to Eduardo, who’s standing by the edge of Mark’s pool, looking up at the sky.  
Eduardo nods and smiles a little.  “Did they kill you too?”  
  
“For the hundredth time,” Mark sighs, feeling the familiarity of this same old comment, “it’s not like you have just the one life.  That is not how _Halo_ works.”  
  
Eduardo laughs.  “And, for the hundredth time, if you can’t die that means it’s not a _real_ game.”  
  
And Mark – for the first time that night – lets himself think the unthinkable thought.  A _Halo_ game that Eduardo keeps losing while Chris pretends not to care and Dustin and Mark razz him about it _,_ Dustin eating pizza topped with Pringles as Chris makes a face of disgust and Eduardo clicks his tongue, the four of them giving each other shit with a smile: _it’s just like a regular Friday night at Kirkland._  
  
Mark blinks hard but doesn’t try to chase the thought out of his head.   
  
“This has been …” Eduardo pauses.  “This has been a good night.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mark answers, the word feeling rough in his throat.  
  
“Mark, I – uh.  I’m, uh, I’m leaving.”  
  
And, just like that, it doesn’t feel like Kirkland at all anymore.  
  
\--  
  
“But you just said – we had – are you still …” Mark feels speechless, stuck.  
  
Then he feels Eduardo’s hand on the small of his back, a quick press, the gesture startlingly familiar; the way Eduardo used to say, wordlessly, _“I’m here.  Mark, I’m here.”_  
  
He turns to face him.  Eduardo’s still smiling and that must mean something.   
  
“No.  It’s not because – I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.  At first I was worried that it was just me wanting to run away because of – uh – it wasn’t just the lawsuit, though.  I want to – don’t you ever just want to _go_?”  
  
Mark is puzzled.  “Go where?”  
  
Eduardo shrugs.  “Go anywhere.  Go _every_ where.  Not worry about what people are saying or – or – who you’re _supposed_ to be.  Just … just go.”  
  
“No,” Mark says, and he means it, entirely and totally.   
  
“I just … I always wanted that.  Maybe it’s from moving as a kid; S _ã_ o Paulo then Miami then Cambridge.  It never – I never felt … settled.  That was never _home._ But that’s just never something I let myself think I could – but now everything is different, you know?  We’re going to have … different lives than the ones we, um, thought.”  
  
Mark’s not sure how to describe Eduardo’s tone, but it feels almost wistful; somehow hopeful _and_ sad, all at once.   
  
“But you – you don’t have to -” but Mark can’t quite finish that thought, because it sounds silly even to his own ears.  
  
Eduardo smiles at him.  “Yeah, Mark.  I know I don’t _have_ to.  But the money – not being responsible for Facebook anymore…” Eduardo trails off, breaks Mark’s gaze and stares at his feet.  
  
(And that definitely sends a feeling suspiciously like shame washing over Mark.  How could he have been imagining, _pretending_ , that nothing had changed?  That they were just four names on a masthead, that this was Friday at Kirkland?  That he and Eduardo hadn’t just spent almost two years of their lives staring at each other with dead eyes?)  
  
“Anyway, I’m – I think maybe this is the way it was supposed to happen.  I don’t know.  It just feels like … like this is my chance.  My father,” his voice is sharp now, “doesn’t expect anything from me anymore.  I don’t have to live up to his – I can do whatever I want now.  And I want to… _go_.”  
  
Mark doesn’t know what to say to that.  He stares out into the distance and thinks about how he hasn’t talked to Eduardo for two years, how a day and a half of talking just can’t undo that, how there’s nothing for him to miss, not really, not after all this time.   
  
He thinks about chances.  If Eduardo thinks this is his chance – well, you shouldn’t waste chances.  
  
Then, in the silence that now seems endless to Mark there is – again – the press of Eduardo’s hand on his back.  Mark, almost against his will, relaxes into the touch.  Eduardo lets his hand linger, just a little bit, this time.  
  
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, reassuring almost, “hey, I’ll write.


	2. 2006-2007

Right before Thanksgiving, his assistant Janice comes into the office one morning with her usual weekly stack of papers.  There are the ones that have been vetted that he needs to sign, the ones he actually has to read over, and the ones she wishes he'd read over but she's realistically accepted will just eventually be recycled.  
  
On the top of the "eventually recycled" pile, a splash of color catches his eye.  "What's that?" he asks, somewhat rhetorically since he's already reaching for it.  
   
Janice quickly averts her eyes.  "I didn't mean to - you know I value and zealously guard your privacy…but it's a postcard and I couldn't help…I flipped it over just to check…it is addressed to you and I think -"  
   
By this time, Mark has it in his hands.  He stares at the picture on the front – mounds and mound of spices in every color, some with signs sticking out of them in a foreign language.  It's a beautiful, overwhelming sight, and Mark can practically taste the spices burning on his tongue.  
   
  
He turns the card over.   
   
 _Honestly, I think there's a lot of valuable business lessons to be learned from the Grand Bazaar. There's something to be said for anything that's been open almost 600 years._  
   
There's no need for a signature.  
   
He sets the postcard on his desk carefully.  Without glancing up he tells Janice, "You should – you should bring me any postcards right away."  
  
\--  
   
The first day of Hanukkah, Janice brings him another postcard.  She doesn't lump it in with the weekly papers.     
   
A huge building that seems to be made of glass glows with light.  It looks ethereal.  
  
  
  
 _This is Lal Bagh.  They say there's trees here that are over 100 years old and at least 1,000 kinds of plants. Can you believe that?  I think I'm going to stay here for a while._  
   
It takes a little research but Mark finds Lal Bagh in Bangalore.  (Smart move, actually, Bangalore is taking off as India's new tech capital.)    
   
He puts Lal Bagh in his drawer with the Grand Bazaar and does not, at all, think about how if he had an address for Eduardo he could write.  
   
\--  
   
But he has an email address, doesn't he?  
   
\--  
   
A week later he types:  
   
 _Happy Hanukkah.  What's Hanukkah like in Bangalore?  In Palo Alto it pretty much involves guilt-inducing phone calls from your mother.  Been thinking about the Grand Bazaar. Must be relevant to Facebook_ somehow _.  I'll work something out_  
   
He hits send without signing.  
   
\--  
   
 **2007**  
  
The first letter comes in February.  Mark thinks that maybe Janice smiles when she bursts into his office with it in her hand.  But maybe that’s just in his head.  
  
 _Mark,_  
 _I don’t know how to explain Bangalore.  It’s beautiful and dirty, crammed with people but I’ve found some little parks that are as green and lovely as anywhere I’ve ever been.  It’s never quiet and I’ve learned to listen to the rhythm of the city in a way that takes_ me _out of it.  It’s … you should try it._  
  
 _As I’m sure you know, the IT business is booming here.  You should really keep an eye on this area.  I think I’ve made some great connections and definitely scouted some new talent I can’t wait to recruit someday, but I’m somehow sure this isn’t where I’m supposed to end up._  
  
 _I’d say_ write back _but, well, I don’t know how long I’ll be at this address.  Also, we’re not 12 year old girls at camp.  Also, I’m sure you’ve never written an actual letter in your entire life, so…_  
  
 _Watch for postcards,_  
 _-Eduardo_  
  
It’s the first time he’s signed his name.  
  
The letter goes in the drawer and Mark clicks open an email window.             
  
He begins.  
  
 _Eduardo,_  
 _What if you live in a city that doesn’t have a rhythm?  I think Palo Alto has the opposite of rhythm, actually.  Maybe I’ll try it the next time I’m in San Francisco._  
  
 _Not like I get to San Francisco much.  Things here are moving even more quickly than I ever imagined.  I think at some point I will have to stop saying that, but it still feels so true._  
  
 _I just wonder if it makes me sound like a jerk to say that.  Now I’m going to be even busier since some guy who knows a lot about business told me to check out Bangalore.  Great, one more place to keep my eye on!_  
  
 _I could totally write letters all the time and even find stamps, probably.  Or at least send someone to find stamps.  I’m just saving the Earth and being more efficient though, no big deal._  
  
 _Watch for emails,_  
 _-Mark_  
  
\--  
  
In April the postcard is of a giant metal spire with metal spikes cradling a giant golden globe at the top.  It somehow manages to look both threatening _and_ picturesque.    
  
  
  
 _This is Bayterek.  I think it’s supposed to be a tree, believe it or not.  I don’t think I have any reason to be here, I just wanted to… go somewhere new.  I don’t know why._  
  
And the thing is?  Somehow, Mark isn’t surprised that he knows exactly what to say.   
  
 _Eduardo,_  
  
 _Believe it or not, I know the feeling.  If you’d phrased it that way before…_  
  
 _Anyway, I think I understand, now, what you were trying to say that night out by my pool.  Sometimes you do things just to see if you_ can _.  I totally get that.  That’s part of what makes coding so irresistible to me, so easy to fall into.  Sometimes you just have to_ try _.  For me, that’s the hack-a-thons and making and creating and – I think maybe that’s part of why I did what I did to you._  
  
I’m _working on understanding that just because you_ can _doesn’t mean you_ should _.  But maybe_ you _can work on understanding that because you can…you_ should _._  
  
 _Basically, what I’m saying is – if you want to go to Kazakhstan for no reason …_ go _._  
  
 _-M_  
  
\--  
  
  
  
A postcard with St. Basil’s Cathedral carries a short, simple message that still manages to take Mark’s breath away.   
  
He holds it for a long time, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.  
  
 _Thank you._  
 _-Wardo_  
  
\--  
  
It’s then that the postcards, letters, and emails turn from a trickle to a tidal wave.  
  
\--  
  
On a Friday in August, Mark walks into his office, a bag of Red Bull and Red Vines in hand, his thoughts racing quickly to the project he has in mind for tonight.  It’s going to be an amazingly complicated piece of work and he can’t wait to spend all weekend on it.  
  
He drops the bag when he pushes his door open and finds Dustin sitting open-mouthed at his desk, holding Wardo’s postcards and letters in his hand.  
  
“Mark, what the fuck is this -” he begins.  
  
But Mark is shouting over him.  “Don’t you fucking – put those back!”  
  
“ _Back_?” Dustin shrieks right back, his voice pitched and confused, “They were out right here on your desk!  I came here to see what you were planning for tonight and I saw a postcard with Brunelleschi’s Dome and you know how I love it because it’s an engineering masterpiece so I came to look at it, that’s all, and the pile fell over and when I went to pick them up – I saw – his handwriting and…” Dustin’s flapping the pile back and forth, his voice getting louder and louder.  
  
Mark winces involuntarily at the sight of his letters and postcards being shaken so carelessly.  They … Dustin should know … they’re _important._ Mark surges forward and snatches them out of Dustin’s hand.  Wardo’s latest letter from Maputo is at the top of the pile.  He’d left them out because he’d assumed the office was deserted and because, well, because sometimes he likes to spread them out and read them.  Not for any special reason or anything but just to see … to see how far Wardo, how far _they_ , had travelled.  
  
“It’s none of your business!” Mark defends.  
  
“Mark, look, I’m not,” Dustin takes a few deep breaths, holds his hands palms out in a placating gesture.  “I’m not judging you or anything … I mean, this is kind of cool, that you’re staying in touch and at least I can tell Chris that Eduardo didn’t just fall off the face of the Earth or anything but Mark … what in the _hell_? That postcard from Florence,  it said – he said – he signed it - ”  
  
  
  
 _Do you really think Brunelleschi invented linear perspective?  Thanks for the last email… I read it at sunrise in a street café.  I needed to hear it.  You – you sorta invented perspective too, Mark.  Don’t forget that. –Wardo_  
  
“I know what it said!” Mark cuts Dustin off.  “You don’t understand!  It’s … we’re friends.  Isn’t that what everyone wanted?  Well, here you go: friends.”  
  
Dustin’s face goes all soft and sympathetic and, for some reason, that makes Mark feel even more helpless and angry.  “Mark,” he says, his voice soothing, “come on.  This is more than…”  
  
“No!  No, Dustin.  It _can’t_ – _I_ can’t.” Mark hates his stupid, traitorous voice for shaking.  
  
“Oh, Mark,” Dustin says, shaking his head.  “You can’t just make this go away by pretending that nothing is happening.  This is – all the postcards and letters – that’s _good_ , Mark.  You know, you two really connecting and – you shouldn’t be-”   
  
Mark looks down at his feet; feels something like fear beating hard in his chest.  “Please…just…let it go, Dustin.  Just let it go, _please_.”  
  
Mark doesn’t look up, even when he hears Dustin push his chair back and walk from the desk and past him.  Dustin opens the door to leave; Mark doesn’t turn.  “Be careful, Mark.  For both of you – be careful.”  
  
The door clicks shut.  Mark clutches his pile of correspondence and tries to slow down his heart.  
  
Wardo is on the other side of the world right now: sleeping in a tent out in the steppes of Mongolia if Mark’s schedule is correct.   
  
How could he be any more careful?  
  
\--  
  
The Sphinx comes in October, almost a year to the day after they signed the settlement papers.  
  
  
  
 _Overrated.  Coming stateside for New Year’s Eve.  Wanna hear about my travels in person? –W_  
  
\--  
  
Chris comes for a four day visit in early December.  They hang out at Dustin’s and when he leaves to go get dinner, Chris and Mark are left sitting side-by-side on Dustin’s ridiculously huge couch.  Chris gives Mark a long, knowing look.   
  
“I can only imagine what Dustin told you about the letters, but it’s really not that weird,” Mark says, ripping the metaphorical band-aid off.  
  
“No,” Chris says, genially.  “Postcards and letters from all over the world and you, apparently, sending him meaningful emails, and you keep them all together and freak out if other people touch them and…Wardo, of course.  Totally, exactly what I thought would happen next with you two crazy kids.”  
  
Mark grins in spite of himself, enjoys Chris’s playful tone of voice.  “We just – we’re friends.  He said he’d write and – I didn’t think – but since February … we … I think we’ve learned a lot about each other and – it feels like we’re on the same page for the first time in so long, Chris, and I don’t want to do anything to mess it up – not that there’s anything _to_ mess up … it’s just …” Mark feels the words getting mixed up and choked in his throat.  He _knows_ Chris will understand, he always does when that happens.  
  
Chris reaches across the couch and puts a reassuring hand on top of Mark’s.  He squeezes.  “Mark, I think this is a really great thing for the two of you.  But I think you – you need to really _look_ at what’s happening.  You don’t want to make the same mistakes as last time.  Be _honest_.  You – he’s coming to visit at the end of the month, right?  Be – just – be _honest_ , Mark.”  
  
Mark wishes he knew how to tell Chris that honesty is the least of his worries.  
  
\--  
  
Wardo gets stuck on an island in the Maldives on New Year’s Eve.     
  
It’s the first time Mark has heard his voice since the night out by the pool, over a year ago now.  Scratchy and faded, he calls on the early morning of December 29.  
  
“Mark!” his voice strains across the connection and Mark has a moment to let a flutter of anticipation race across his skin.  “Mark, I’m stuck in the fucking Maldives!  The biplane that was supposed to get me to the mainland is broken.  One biplane this damn island has and I can’t even rent a freaking boat.  I’m so fucking sorry!”  
  
“It’s okay,” Mark shouts back, and he’s surprised to find he means it, “but I expect a letter, Wardo.”  
  
And all the way on the other side of the world, Wardo laughs.


	3. 2008

**March 2008**  
  
 _I’ve been all over the whole fucking world – slept in tents in the desert, swam in mountain lakes so clear you could see straight down in the bottom, climbed to the top of ancient ruins in a rainforest just because I can._  
  
 _And still, S _ã_ o Paulo is the place that feels the most foreign, the most overwhelming, to me.  _  
  
_Why does this happen?  Why do I let him – I thought I’d gotten over my expectations of_ his _expectations but – “I have given you this year, but it’s past time for you to stop acting like a spoiled child wandering the world with no direction.  You must grow up now and act like a man.”_  
  
 _I think I’ve learned how to be at home in the world – why do I still feel like a stranger here?_  
  
 _-Wardo_  
  
 _\--_  
  
 _Wardo,_  
  
 _You’re lucky to feel at home, well, anywhere.  That’s a lot more than some people ever get.  And you earned it.  So, get out of Brazil.  Go find someplace you haven’t been yet._  
  
 _And remember this part if nothing else: your father didn’t_ give _you anything … and certainly not the past year.  That was_ yours, _Wardo._ You _did that,_ you _made that happen. And that means he can’t take it from you._  
  
 _Don’t let him even fucking try._  
  
 _-M_  
   
\--  
   
 **August 2008**  
   
 _Wardo,_  
   
 _I know you’re the last person in the world I should be sending this email to and telling all of this to … but … you’re my fucking best friend, all right? You are! You’re my best friend and I’ve been up for, like, 27 hours and I think I might be a little punch-drunk-stress-tired – and –_  
   
 _Sean did it again.  Some intern, Jesus, Wardo, she’s barely 19 years old (which how the fuck did it get to be that 19 seems so young?) and my assistant heard about it through the grapevine and found her sobbing and hiding in the bathrooms and she thought_ she _was going to be in trouble, she begged Janice not to tell me.  And – he doesn’t even_ work _for us anymore but he – he – has shares and he comes in here like he’s fucking Elvis and – fuck, Wardo.  We’re not even turning profit yet,  we keep losing money and I know that’s only temporary but shit like this – it’s – it’s –_  
   
 _It’s_ my _fault.  It’s_ all _my fault.  I – I let him, I brought him in, and I believed him._  
   
 _19 years old, Wardo.  Her name is Erin._  
   
 _-Mark_  
   
\--  
  _Mark,_  
   
 _I almost broke my personal rule and sent this as an email so you could get this right away.  But luckily I’m in a real city now so I can have this overnighted to you from Nairobi._  
   
 _I’m going to tell you something I’ve always wanted to say.  It’s going to be hard for you to hear, Mark, but here it is: you are not responsible for Sean Parker.  Only Sean Parker is responsible for Sean Parker.  You are responsible for your actions, though.  You can’t blame him for screwing me over.  He didn’t trick you or fool you.  You can’t point the finger at him like the snake in the garden._ You _reached up and bit the apple.  Got that?_  
   
  _But that also means that you can’t control what Sean Parker does.  His fuck-ups, his actions, however hurtful and embarrassing they are for Facebook, for the business, they aren’t a reflection of who_ you _are.  (You are not Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, and don’t you ever forget it.) They are a reflection of who_ he _is; they are his responsibility.  Yeah, he might not step up to take that responsibility and you might have to deal with the consequences._  
   
 _But that’s okay.  You can handle that.  Because you’re a good man.  Because you’re the better man._  
   
 _-Wardo_  
   
 _\--_  
   
 **October 2008**  
   
A cheap, glossy, touristy postcard (the kind Wardo never sends) with the Parthenon.  
  
  
  
 _Fuck it, Mark. It’s 3 AM and I’m drunk.  Today’s the day we signed and … I wish you were here with me.  The Parthenon – would you whisper to me in Ancient Greek? I’m mailing this before I lose my nerve._  
   
\--  
   
 _Wardo,_  
   
 _It doesn’t have to be at the Parthenon._  
   
 _Yes._  
   
\--  
   
 **November 2008**  
   
A dancing woman grins, her hands above her head while a man in the background strums on a guitar.  
  
  
  
 _No matter how long I spend in Andalusia, I’m never going to learn to flamenco.  So I might as well come to California for New Year’s.  No missing this time. Olé!_  
   
\--  
   
 _Wardo,_  
   
 _I’ll meet you at the airport.  This time for real_.  
   
\--  
   
And he does.  
   
\--  
   
Wardo is carrying a huge, battered backpack that hits the ground with a resounding thump as he reaches his arms out for Mark.  Mark, without a second thought, steps right into the hug.   
   
“It’s _so_ good to see you,” Wardo says, his voice close to giddy.  
   
“Yeah.  Yes, yeah, you too,” Mark mumbles, squeezing Wardo as hard as he can.  
   
\--  
   
They talk all day, they talk all night.  Wardo tells him about the sun setting over Ayers rock, about neon lights flashing in Tokyo dusk, about dusty summers in Morocco, and snowy winters in Berlin.  Mark tells him about how Facebook feels like a living thing sometimes, how the office can be electric with ideas and invention in a way he always dreamed of, how he just sees and wants _more_.   
   
The conversation doesn’t stop until they’re both dozing off on Mark’s couch.  Eventually, they just fall asleep right there.  
   
Mark wakes up on New Year’s Eve morning with Wardo curled up beside him.  
   
He’s traveled all over the world and ended up here, at least for today, on Mark’s couch.  
   
Mark closes his eyes and breathes in the moment.  
   
\--  
   
Dustin and Chris insist they can’t miss this historic reunion, so they raincheck their dates and come over to Mark’s.  Just like two years ago, the four of them order too many pizzas, buy too much beer, and end up fighting over _Indiana Jones_.  It doesn’t really feel like New Year’s Eve until midnight approaches.  At 11:00 Dustin and Chris share a sly look and then rise in unison.   
   
“Well, my lady is waiting for me at the casa.  If I leave now I can get some sweet, sweet midnight loving,” Dustin says.  
   
“Yeah,” Chris chimes in.  “Sean just texted me from the hotel bar.  He will absolutely die if I don’t show up for midnight, so …”  
   
They’re out the door with high fives and back slaps before Mark can get a word in edgewise.   
   
Wardo gives him a rueful grin.  “We have the world’s most subtle friends.”  
   
Mark wants to parse his words and smile for deeper meanings but, somehow, he can’t get past the _we_ part.  
   
\--  
   
So there they are at midnight, out by Mark’s pool, watching the stars.  The same place they were that night just over two years ago when Wardo said, _“I’m leaving.”_  
   
He left, but he’s back.  He’s back and – “I can’t believe we’re back here,” Wardo says as if he can read Mark’s thoughts.  
   
“We’re not really,” Mark answers.  “We’re – we both came a really long way in two years.”  
   
“ _That’s_ true.  I’m just about out of room for stamps in my passport.  And – and it was more than just miles, wasn’t it?  I guess we’re in a new place, then.”  
   
 _A new place._  
   
He says it with a smile in his voice; Mark can see it without looking.  When he does turn, though, he sees Wardo giving him a look that feels familiar _and_ brand new.   
   
It’s almost midnight and – and he’s pretty sure that Wardo wants to kiss him to ring in the New Year.   
   
Mark thinks about his drawer full of postcards and letters, some of which are worn from multiple readings, the ones that mean the most to him, that have been lifelines and lights in his life over the past two years, the letters from his best friend.  
   
 _His best friend_.   
   
He’s back in the depositions, the two years of accusations and recrimination, the distance separating them across a table feeling much further than the distance between California and Tunisia.   
   
 _You had one friend_.  
   
He _can’t_ risk that.  Not again.  Not ever again.   
   
“We’re – I’m so glad we’re friends,” Mark blurts out.  “I – _best_ friends.  I wouldn’t want to ruin what we – _best friends_!” He steps back from Wardo, his heart racing.  
   
Wardo’s face falls.  “Um, yeah.  Friends.  Me too.  I’m glad we’re … friends.”  
   
Mark almost opens his mouth to take it all back – to apologize – _anything_ to get that crestfallen and confused look off of Wardo’s face.     
   
Before he can, he hears the loud _pop-pop-pop_ of fireworks in the distance.  
   
It’s a new year.


	4. 2009

**March 2009**  
   
The last postcard is of a huge fountain in the shape of a creature that seems to be half lion half fish.  The picture is of the creature spraying water with the twinkling lights of a huge city skyline in the background.  
  
  
  
_I think there’s something to be said for a city that chooses a “merlion” as its symbol.  I think that means this is a place where you can be a lot of things at once.  I think that’s what I need.  I’m staying in Singapore, Mark._  
   
It’s not signed.  
   
\--  
   
And then there are no more letters or postcards.   
   
There are phone calls.  There are text messages.  There are even emails, but they’re not the same kind they were when Mark was writing the equivalent of long, electronic letters for Wardo to read when he could find service or, hell, electricity.  Now it’s much easier and efficient to just pick up the phone and call Wardo.  So, it’s not like they’re not friends anymore.  They are.  It’s not like they’re not in touch anymore.  They are.  
  
Wardo is setting up a real life, a business life, regaining footing in a world he stepped out of two years ago, so of course, he’s busy now.  Everything has changed for him.  That’s why he can’t write letters anymore, Mark tells himself.  And that makes sense.  And since they have so many quicker and more efficient ways to communicate, that’s why Wardo doesn’t _need_ to write letters anymore.  That all makes sense.  So Mark doesn’t know why he feels so bad about it.  
   
\--  
   
In June, Wardo gets a boyfriend.  
   
His name is Graham, he’s a Scottish ex-pat living in Singapore.  He spent a year bumming around Europe when he was 18 and he plays the bass guitar.  He’s a bartender and “low-key” (Wardo’s word) and in the pictures on Wardo’s Facebook, he smiles as if he hasn’t a care in the world.  
   
Wardo tells Mark, hesitantly, over the phone.  “He’s really nice,” Wardo says, his voice so gentle that it makes Mark’s stomach hurt.  “I think you’d – I want you to like him, Mark.  It’s important to me that you like him because – because, after all, we’re best friends.”  
   
Mark thinks he’s probably imagining Wardo stressing the last two words.  Probably.  
   
\--  
   
Dustin shows up on his doorstep with a bottle of tequila.  Mark rolls his eyes.  “Did Chris send you to make sure I’m not listening to sad songs in the dark or whatever?  Which, remind me again, why would I be doing that over my best friend getting a significant other?”  
   
Dustin shoves his way inside.  “Oh fucking please, Mark.  I don’t know what weird thing went wrong with you two during New Year’s but … can’t you just admit this sucks?”  
   
Mark hunches his shoulders and lets Dustin in.  
   
\--  
   
“The thing is, the thing is…” A few hours later and Mark is, well, Mark’s drunk.  He’s _wasted_.  And that’s how he’s found himself rambling while Dustin looks on in sympathy and Chris, via webcam, shakes his head with irritation.  “…the thing is…it’s not like I didn’t ever have _feelings_ for Wardo.”  
   
“Wonder of wonders he actually _said_ it,” Dustin mutters.  
   
“No, I know, no one ever suspected but … I think maybe I had feelings for him even back at Harvard.  How fucking crazy is that?  I know, it’s a surprise.”  
   
Chris laughter buzzes through the computer speakers.   
   
“But – you guys – I think … do you ever think – I do, I do think that sometimes even when … even when you maybe _love_ someone … you can just miss your chance.  You have this, like, moment when … um … when you’re in a conference room and you can say – you can say – or…or…he sends you a postcard from Greece and you should fly to where he is but you’re – you’re so fucking _scared_ and … and then before you know it, he’s gonna move in with Graham and you – you missed that chance, you missed your one chance, you know?”  
   
“Oh, _Mark_ ,” Chris says, his sympathy as clear as if he was in the room with them.   
   
Then Dustin is squeezing his shoulder and saying, “Mark – maybe some people…maybe when it’s _really_ meant to be … maybe you get more than one chance in life.”  
   
Before Mark can tell Dustin what utter bullshit that is he leans over and pukes all over his $2,000 carpeting.  Then he passes out.  
   
\--  
   
The third anniversary of the settlement date passes without comment from Wardo.   
   
All of October, Mark feels his temper fraying quicker and quicker.  It’s harder for him to concentrate, even when he wants to get lost in code, even when he wants to wire in.  After making a third intern storm out in angry tears, Mark realizes he’s ruining the _vibe_ of the hack-a-thon.  It only works when it feels fun, full of energy and freedom.  Mark’s bringing them down _,_ which is slowing them down and that – that’s one thing he can’t have.  He walks right out of the offices without a destination in mind and, six blocks later, stops at the first bar he sees.  
   
He’s on his second beer when she approaches him.  She’s a blonde with thick, black-framed glasses, blue streaks in her hair, a tiny nose stud, and bright red lipstick.  She’s got curves in places that most girls in California are stick thin and Mark’s pretty sure most people would call her fat.  “So,” she begins, sitting beside him at the bar, “are you famous or something?  Everyone in this bar is gawking at you.  And this is a nerd bar, meaning you must be nerd famous.  But I thought I was pretty nerd-savvy and you’re not ringing any bells in my mind.”  
   
Mark didn’t notice anyone staring but he guesses maybe one or two people spared him a second glance.  That happens sometimes now.  So he answers her honestly.  “My name is Mark Zuckerberg.”  
   
“Cool,” she says, sticking out her hand and giving him a huge smile.  “I’m Quincy Robbins.  So, _are_ you famous or something?”  
   
She doesn’t know his name.  That happens less and less these days.   
   
“I … I invented Facebook.”  
   
“Facebook?  Hmmm…well, y’all are a little too loose with privacy for my taste.  But I did just sign up for Twitter.  Do you know about that?”  
   
Mark takes her home that night.  She presses him up against his front door before he can even get it all the way shut and before he knows it they’re fucking in his front hallway.  Afterwards, they watch _Aqua Teen Hunger Force_ and fight about Meatwad.   
   
By 5 AM she’s still as wide awake as he is and they’re still bickering amiably, this time over her position that Twitter is “just easier” than Facebook’s interface.  Mark can’t remember the last time he had such easy repartee with anyone, much less a girl.  
   
“Hey, do you think talking to me is like being on a Stairmaster?” He interrupts.  
   
She giggles.  “Um, I don’t even know what that means.  Talking to you is fun.  It’s a continuous challenge.  Why else do you think I came home with you and fucked you in your hallway?”  
   
“Good,” Mark nods, quickly.  “Let’s be boyfriend and girlfriend then.”  
   
Quincy arches an eyebrow and stares at him.  “You are an odd duck, Mark Zuckerberg.  But I like that.  So yeah!  Let’s totally go steady and be boyfriend and girlfriend!  We can go get malts!” She stresses _malts_ in a fake, cheery voice and before he knows it, Mark is actually kind of laughing and then Quincy is leaning towards him for a kiss.  
   
Mark breaks off the kiss after a few seconds.  “Oh yeah, I should probably tell you that last I heard Facebook was apparently valued at being worth $5 billion.”  
   
Quincy doesn’t even blink.  She yanks Mark back into the kiss, muttering only, “I’m not here for Facebook, Mark.”  
   
He doesn’t stop the kissing this time around.  
   
\--  
   
Three days later, when Wardo calls for their weekly scheduled phone call (It’s much easier to have phone calls scheduled.  Much more organized: not at all like never quite knowing when letters or emails would arrive.  Very efficient.)  Mark says, matter-of-factly, “I have a girlfriend.”  
   
There’s a long silence on the other end which eventually prompts Mark to ask “Wardo?  You still there?  Hello?”  
   
“A…girlfriend,” Wardo’s voice is reedy.  
   
“Yup.  Her name is Quincy.  She’s a lawyer for some non-profit and she thinks Meatwad is better than Frylock and that Facebook should be less of a ‘creeper’ but she’s still pretty cool.”  
   
“You have … a girlfriend … named Quincy,” Wardo chokes the words out.  
   
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”  
   
“Sorry, it’s just kind of _sudden_ , that’s all.”  
   
“I guess.  But we met and then started dating.  That’s what people do, right?  We’re currently having an awesome fight about what counts as a ‘malt.’”  
   
Wardo laughs but it sounds strange to Mark’s ears, almost a little hysterical.  The words start pouring out of him frantically, a tangled jumble Mark can’t even make sense of.  “A _girlfriend_.  I – well – she sounds – I hope you’re – that _does_ explain New Year’s Eve,” he concludes with another high, tight laugh.    
   
“New Year’s Eve?  What does Quincy have to do with New Year’s Eve?” Mark is genuinely puzzled.  New Year’s is still almost two months away.   
   
Wardo clears his throat.  “Nothing.  Nevermind, nothing, it was stupid.  I – I am glad you found someone, Mark.”  
   
In an instant, Mark feels the awkwardness of the conversation creeping up on him.  He says the first thing that pops into his head.  “I didn’t really _find_ her – I mean – we met at a bar, uh, it wasn’t like – um -” The words feel wrong.  
   
Wardo laughs again. and this one sounds a little more familiar.  “Always so literal-minded.”  
   
“And anyway,” Mark says, suddenly desperate to change the topic, “anyway, how’s Graham?”  
   
\--  
   
Dating Quincy is, quite frankly, awesome.   
   
She has a million and one things in her own life so she doesn’t expect Mark to make her the focus of his life.  They have lots of interests in common, so there’s always something to bicker about. She never minds if Mark stays at work for three straight days as long as he texts to let her know what’s going on.  They have sex at least once a week unless they’re both really busy.  They never talk about anything personal or serious when they could be watching old episodes of _Hawaii_ _5-0_ and laughing at the campiness.  
   
“It’s like dating your best friend,” he tells Chris on the phone one night while Quincy is at book club.  
   
But that feels wrong, because his best friend is (still) Wardo, and Mark has a weird feeling that dating Wardo wouldn’t be like this at all.  Wardo would probably mind if he stayed at work three days, texts of not. Wardo would probably insist on talking about personal and serious things. And the sex part – well, Mark doesn’t know why, exactly, but he has this feeling it would be more than once a week.   
   
“I mean, it’s like dating a really cool, low-pressure, fun to hang out with friend,” Mark amends as Chris gives a long-suffering sigh.  
   
\--  
   
On New Year’s Eve, Mark finally understands what Wardo meant about New Year’s Eve.   
  
He and Quincy are at some party with her friends, a small get-together that’s pretty relaxed.  Mark doesn’t usually do events like this, but he and Quincy haven’t had any time together for most of December, so why not?  
   
As they step outside at midnight and share a quick kiss before looking up at the fireworks, Mark flashes back to the year before, standing with Wardo by his pool, the way Wardo looked as if –  
   
Then he hears Wardo’s voice cracking on the phone when he told him about Quincy: “ _A_ girl _friend?”_  
   
Mark kisses his girlfriend as it becomes 2010 and realizes, with a shock, that Wardo thinks Quincy means he ... he …  
   
Man, Mark hates sexual binaries.


	5. 2010

On New Year’s Day he calls Wardo.  “Hey,” he answers, his voice sleepy and a little confused, as this is not the time for their scheduled phone call.  “Something wrong?”  
   
“I like guys too.”  
   
“What?” Wardo’s voice snaps awake.  
   
“I just wanted you to know.  I’m dating Quincy and everything, but I like guys too.”  
   
“Mark?  What the hell?”  
   
“I just didn’t want you to think that, you know… I, um…”  
   
Didn’t want him to think _what_?  What was his plan here?  
   
He starts talking very quickly.  “I just thought _you_ might think I was totally straight but since we’re best friends and we should be honest, I wanted to tell you I’m not.  Totally straight, I mean.”  
   
There’s a second of silence.  “Uh – well – thanks?  For the honesty?”  
   
“Anyway, you can go back to sleep.  We can talk during our regularly scheduled time.  I just wanted to start the year off right.”  Mark tries to be nonchalant.  
   
“Yeah – that…uh, yeah.  Goodbye then, Mark.”  
   
When they hang up, Mark feels a second of satisfaction.  Now Wardo knows that Mark likes guys so _that_ wasn’t the reason he didn’t – oh.  What if now Wardo thinks the reason Mark didn’t kiss him on New Year’s wasn’t because Mark didn’t like guys but because Mark didn’t like _him_?  
   
Damn it, he just can’t get this right.  
   
\--  
   
In April, there’s the text.  
   
It comes in the middle of the night for Mark, on a rare evening when Quincy is sleeping beside him.  He sits straight up in bed, senses already on alert.  
   
_From: Wardo_  
_It’s over. Graham wants to travel, how about that?_  
   
Mark slides out of bed and immediately dials Wardo’s number.  
   
“Hey,” he says, softly.  
   
He hears some short, huffy breathes on the other end of the line.   
   
“Hey,” Mark repeats.  “Come to California.”  
   
“I don’t know -” Wardo’s voice wobbles a little.  
   
“Come to California _right now_ ,” Mark insists.   
   
A pause.  
   
“Okay.”  
   
\--  
   
Mark is waiting at the gate again.  
   
The Wardo who de-planes this time is entirely different than the one who walked off a plane over a year ago with a million miles of the world on his back.  He’s not carrying a beat-up backpack and he’s more polished, wearing one of the suits Mark remembers so well.  (Maybe it’s that Tom Ford he came back for.)   
   
But his face breaks out in the same happy grin when he sees Mark there waiting and there’s the hug again, this time their voices lapping over each other with the same words.  
   
_“It’s so good to see you._ ”  
   
\--  
   
They spend three days at Mark’s.  It’s mostly just the two of them.  Quincy had kissed Mark and said, “You be a good friend, I don’t wanna get in the way.  I’ll see you in a few days.”  Chris hadn’t been able to make it on such short notice and Dustin is swamped with something big at Asana.   
   
So, it’s mostly just the two of them – talking, watching movies, having all of Mark’s favorite food delivered.   
   
Wardo brought three albums full of pictures and Mark finds he’s actually fascinated to flip through them.  In a way, they are the perfect companion to all the letters and emails.  He wishes he could find the right words to tell Wardo that.  His hands linger on the Nairobi pictures.  “ _That’s where you wrote the letter that said I was a good man.”_ He can’t stop staring at pictures from Montevideo. _“That’s where you got online for the first time in a few months, saw some of the changes I’d made to Facebook and said you were proud of what I’d done.”_  
   
It almost feels like being there with Wardo.  And it takes Mark back to that box full of letters and postcards he keeps in box in a shelf in his closet, how it would feel when one would arrive, like Wardo was reaching out to him across all those miles.  
   
\--  
   
Finally, they talk about Graham.  
   
Wardo, a little buzzed, laughs bitterly.  “He wanted me to come off and explore the world with him, can you imagine?  He knows I – when I told him that part of my life was over he _laughed_.”  
   
“Why?” Mark asks.  
   
“He said it was _obvious_ I wasn’t settled in Singapore, that _anyone_ could see I was just pretending.  He said he _knew_ I was a wanderer; that I’d _never_ find what I was looking for.  He said that was why he liked me in the first place and wasn’t a year long enough?”  
   
“Well,” Mark says, searching for the right words, “I mean, that’s not too crazy, right?  You spent almost two years -”  
   
Wardo cuts him off.  “It wasn’t … I wasn’t _wandering_ – I was _looking._ ”  
   
“Looking?  Well, um, sure.  So, you stopped … uh, you’re in Singapore now.  Did you tell him – I mean, did you find what you were _looking_ …”  
   
“No,” Wardo snaps, his voice tense.   
   
_“Then why did you stop?”_   Mark wants to ask.  _“If you didn’t find it, why’d you stop looking?”_  
   
\--  
   
They promise to keep in better touch.  “Expect emails,” Mark says in what he hopes is a teasing tone, an echo back to that first email all those years ago.  But all the color drains from Wardo’s face and Mark’s not quite sure what he did wrong.   
   
“I’ll call,” is all he says in return and then he disappears through security.  
   
\--  
   
He does call.  He calls a lot and so does Mark.  Maybe more than their once a week scheduled call, even.  One night Mark suggests they try Skype (“I think I’m gonna end up buying Skype and integrating it into Facebook at some point in the future, so we should really test out usability,” is how he broaches the subject.) and then there are weekly video chats to go with the calls.  There are texts and emails, which are maybe getting a little bit longer on both their parts.   
   
It’s a good connection with his best friend and Mark is grateful for that.  He tries not to think about missed chances, about windows of opportunity when maybe, just maybe, things could have turned out very differently.  
   
There are no more letters or postcards.  
   
\--  
   
In August, Quincy breaks up with him when he buys her a diner that makes really great malts.  
   
He was going to save it up for their year anniversary, but that’s too close to the anniversary of the settlement for his comfort.   
   
When she pulls the deed out of the envelope she stares at him for a long time, a stricken expression on her face.  
   
“Oh my God,” she finally whispers, “is this, like … am I supposed to be Sandra Bullock in this situation?  Is this your grand romantic gesture that I should …?”  
   
Mark frowns.  He likes Quincy so much because she’s usually above such ridiculousness.  “No, of course not.  It’s just that place makes good malts.  Remember our fight about malts?  I thought it was better than flowers or something.  It’s just a present, not a huge statement or anything.  I can put you in touch with my broker and you can sell it if you want the cash instead.”  
   
She seems momentarily relieved and that’s more like the pragmatic, level-headed Quincy Mark knows.  But then she frowns.  “I didn’t _want_ it to be a grand romantic gesture,” she says slowly, as if puzzling something out.   
   
That makes perfect sense to Mark.  “Why would you?  Besides being wasteful, grand romantic gestures don’t really exist.  That’s just a myth Hollywood and Hallmark tries to sell us to make us feel bad about our lives.”  
   
Quincy smiles at him with such affection that he can’t figure out why she also seems kind of sad.  “ _Exactly_ , Mark.  That’s why we’ve had such a great time together.  Because neither one of us believes in grand romantic gestures.”  
   
Mark nods in agreement.  He knew Quincy would get it.   
   
But then Quincy reaches over and folds the deed back in his hands, leaning forward to kiss him on his cheek.  “But Mark?  Maybe we should.”  
   
\--  
   
He doesn’t tell Wardo Quincy dumped him.  He’s not even sure how he’d explain it.  He knows that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to share with a best friend but somehow the words never quite come out.   
   
On the day of settlement anniversary he calls Janice to tell her he’s just not coming into work then turns everything off and lays in bed for a while, thinking back to that to that day four years ago when they signed the papers.  
   
Realistically, he’s not sure why that day is such a black mark in his mind.  They signed the papers and everyone looked very official and serious but – but he and Wardo shared secret glances and they’d already made up and that night Wardo had come over and – really that was the day their written communication had begun, right?  Passed through the hands of Marilyn Delpy.   
   
Marilyn still works for Facebook, has more shares than ever, and is a truly valuable asset to the company.  Mark doesn’t speak with her that much but they’ve crossed paths at a few company events and she seems happy enough.  She’s the only person on “his side” who was there for _everything_ , even more than Sy, she was his minder and his babysitter and _she_ knows every detail of those two years of hell.  Mark suddenly wants to talk to Marilyn Delpy more than anything else in the world.   
   
He calls in, has Janice put him through.  
   
“Mr. Zuckerberg?” Marilyn asks, concern in her voice.  “Is everything all right, sir?”  
   
“Marilyn, do you remember the lawsuit?  With Wardo, I mean?”  
   
She chuckles.  “Yes sir, of course, I was there – I know this is around settlement time, yes?  Did you have some questions?  It’s been a few years, but I’m sure I can -”  
   
“Are you happy at Facebook?” Mark interrupts.  
   
Her voice is clear and firm.  “Yes, very.  You – you were right that day.  This was a good choice for me.”  
   
“Do you remember when he said he was my only friend?”  
   
There’s a moment of quiet on the other end, then Mark hears some shuffling in the background.  “Sorry, I had to close my office door,” she says, her voice now quieter.  “He didn’t mean it quite that way, Mark.  Mr. Zuckerberg.  He – he was just hurt and he wanted you to … he didn’t mean you didn’t have anyone else.”  
   
“But I didn’t have anyone else like – do you think that you can miss your chance?  Like, your _one_ chance to -”  
   
Now _she_ interrupts _him_ , her voice again clear and firm.  “No.  Absolutely not.  There’s no such thing as one chance, Mark.”   
   
_“Maybe_ ,” Mark dares to think for the first time, _“maybe that’s true.”_  
   
\--  
   
That night he calls Wardo and tells him about Quincy.  Wardo is a little shocked and mostly confused.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?  Do you want to come out for a visit, get away from things?  Are you alright?  Do you want me to come to California?”  
   
“Yes.  To that last part, I mean.  Yes. But not now.  I – can you come for New Year’s Eve?”  
   
Wardo doesn’t hesitate.  “Of course.”  
   
\--   
   
It takes all of Mark’s considerable self-control to stop himself from grabbing Wardo around the waist and kissing him right there at the gate.   
   
But he wants it to be midnight on New Year’s Eve.  He wants fireworks ringing in his ears as he pulls him close out by the pool and _finally_ presses their lips together and says, without words, the thing he’s been trying to say for five years now.   
   
It seems right.   
   
\--  
   
“Come outside,” he tugs at Wardo’s hand, pulls him up from the couch.  He’s been making a concentrated effort to touch Wardo more over the past day (a hand on his shoulder, a nudge with his arm) and it’s had amazing consequences: Wardo touching back.   
   
He lets Mark pull him up, almost twines their fingers together, and Mark feels a frisson of _want_ race across his skin.  _Soon – soon – soon_ he thinks.  
   
“So here we are again,” he tells Wardo as they stand by his pool, waiting for the minutes to count down and 2010 to roll over into 2011, “after all this time.”  
   
“Yeah,” Wardo says, thoughtfully, “right back where we started.”  
   
“Not quite.  You traveled the world a few times over and – um – well – it’s a _new_ place.”  
   
“Friends,” Eduardo says, his voice now tremulous.  “We’re best friends.  Remember?  That’s where this started _– all_ of this, all the way back at Harvard – _best friends_.”  
   
And now Wardo won’t meet his gaze.  He stares at his feet and shuffles a few steps away from Mark, shoving his hands in his pockets.   
   
It all feels so sickeningly familiar to Mark.  Is this – he can’t believe that this is part of some elaborate plan that Wardo’s thought out, some years long revenge for such a weak pay-off.  And if it was?  He’d be crowing about it now, not looking like he was about to cry.  That must mean – that must just mean that Wardo doesn’t want him that way.  Not – not anymore.   
   
There was a chance.  Years and years ago – there was a chance and Mark missed it.  
   
“Yeah,” he says, his voice dull and listless.  “Best friends.”  
   
The fireworks explode, welcoming the year 2011.


	6. 2011

**2011**  
  
He hasn’t spoken to Wardo in two months.  They just never seem to find the time to call or email or even text these days.  They’re both very busy, is all.  
   
Then one day in February, Janice comes into his office ashen-faced.   
   
“I – it’s – it came today.”   
   
She holds out a postcard.  
   
Mark snatches it from her hand and waves her out. He doesn’t even look at it until he’s heard the door click shut behind her.  
  
A giant, ancient-looking stone castle covered in moss rises up in a green field with a lake beside it.  
  
 _I walked five miles out of my way for the Blarney stone … I wanted to kiss it to see if it would give me the courage to say this.  I’m coming to see you for New Year’s Eve this year even if I have to build a raft.  No broken biplanes are stopping me this time.  I’m coming to see you, and I – I want kissing you to be the first thing I do in 2009.  I want to stop looking and come home to you, Mark.  I – oh fuck it, I’ll never send this._  
   
Mark sets the postcard down so his tears won’t smear it.  
   
\--  
   
It’s Wardo who emails this time.  
   
 _Mark,_  
   
 _I am so, so sorry.  I just found out my new assistant – well, I left something out on my desk next to some other papers, something that was only meant for me and – he didn’t know, he was just being diligent.  It was already addressed and he knows we are close friends and – he didn’t even read it, he was just doing what he thought I – he told me just today, that he’d put it in express because he thought I’d want it – I’m so sorry.  You were never meant to read that – it was – I don’t know why I kept it after all this time, it was extraordinarily stupid and – I’m so sorry._  
   
 _Mark … I really and truly value our friendship, you must believe that by now.  I’d be … you’re my best friend.  I wouldn’t ever do anything to jeopardize that.  Things … life changes.  I am glad we’ve remained friends through all those changes and I don’t want to do anything to put that at risk.  I_ know _if you think about it you’ll agree._  
   
 _Again, I am so sorry for this mistake.  I hope it hasn’t done any damage to our friendship.  When you feel ready, please feel free to give me a call or send me an email._  
   
 _-Eduardo_  
   
It’s the _Eduardo_ that makes Mark absolutely sure of what he has to do.  
   
\--  
   
He picks up a pen, takes a second to relish the weight of it in his fingers, how it feels almost foreign after all this time.  He picks up a pen and puts the pen to paper.  
   
He writes this letter.  
   
 _Wardo,_  
   
 _I’ve kept every single one of your postcards and letters.  They’re in a box in my closet and I – I know why your Blarney stone postcard was out.  It was because you were doing what I do – taking out all those pieces of the world and feeling our story in them._  
   
 _I have everything you’ve ever sent me, Wardo, because I cherish them, because I see us grow up and change and … and move towards each other in them._  
   
 _That night in the conference room?  When we finally, after all that time, really talked to each other?  Really said what needed to be said?  That’s when all this started, that was the beginning, whether we knew it or not.   I was so sad about that day for so long, I could never figure out why, when it was the beginning.  I see now it’s because I was thinking about that as the beginning of the end, the moment when I had a chance and let it slip away; let you slip away into the great wide world. _  
   
 _But that was wrong.  You had to leave; I know that now more than ever, you had to because we both had so far to go.  We could never have crossed those distances, those miles, if you hadn’t left, if we didn’t start writing._  
   
 _But we did.  We did and I have every single postcard and letter that proves it._  
   
 _There’s no such thing as too late.  There’s no such thing as one chance.  Maybe we keep getting chances until we get it right.  (That’s what coding is, after all, endless chances.)  That’s what I do with Facebook: keep tweaking, keep trying, keep working until it’s right.  I can’t give Facebook more chances than us, Wardo, I won’t do it again._  
   
 _So, come home to me._  
   
 _It took five years and a whole lot of passport stamps, but you found what you were looking for.  It wasn’t in the Seychelles or Ljubljana or Vladivostok.  It’s not in Singapore._  
   
 _It’s with me._  
   
 _I love you,_  
   
 _-M_  
   
His fingers ache, a good ache, when he’s done.  
   
He buzzes through to Janice.   
  
“I need you to get a letter to Singapore overnight.”  
   
\--  
   
The pounding on his door wakes him up from a deep sleep. (well, as deep a sleep as you can achieve slumped over on your couch.)  He’s up and shuffling to the door pretty much out of instinct.  But by the time he puts his hand on the doorknob he realizes –  
   
Wardo is standing there, in a suit, yeah, but with his battered old backpack at his side.  He drops it on Mark’s front steps.  He’s holding a huge notebook which is bound together with a thick black comb.  He holds the book up for Mark to see the second Mark opens the door.  
“It’s all your emails, it’s every email you sent,” Wardo says.  “I – I printed them out and had them bound so I could…” He shakes the book.  Then he leans down and flips open his backpack.  Mark watches him carefully place the book inside the backpack and then fish something else out.  He raises his hand, full of worn paper.  “These are the ones I – the ones I managed to print out and carry with me.  The – the ones that I _needed_ – the _important_ ones.”   
   
“Wardo,” Mark begins, his voice soothing.  
   
But Wardo just shakes his head, cutting him off.  “I was scared.  New Year’s Eve, I was scared, Mark…but I’ve come too far to be scared.  I’ve been waiting _so long,”_ his voice cracks, “for us to be ready.”  
   
Wardo leans down again and, almost reverently, puts the worn emails back into his bag.  When he stands this time, he stares right at Mark: a question in his eyes.  
   
Mark answers that question with clear conviction.  “We’re ready.”  
   
It’s not the Boseong tea fields or the Polochic River but when they kiss for the first time, Mark’s porch feels like the whole wide world.   
   
\--  
   
The next day, Mark takes the box down from his closet shelf and they sort through it.   
   
He’s almost forgotten what’s at the bottom of the box until he sees it in Eduardo’s hand.  
   
“Your passport?” Wardo asks.  
   
Mark shrugs.  “I kept it with them so – just in case – just if you ever said – if you ever needed…it was a reminder that no matter where you were, if I had to, I could get there.”  
   
Wardo doesn’t say anything; he just looks at Mark with an unreadable expression.  He sets Mark’s passport on top of all the letters and postcards and then grabs Mark’s wrists and hauls him into an embrace.   
   
Mark lifts his face up and smiles as Wardo kisses him.  Even though they’ve spent the past twelve hours kissing, touching, and in pretty much continuous contact ( _falling asleep in his bed wrapped up in each other, every inch of skin possible pressed together_ ), the feeling of Wardo’s mouth on his, hot, hungry, and hopeful, still feels like a surprise of the very best kind.   
   
“Thank you for waiting for us … for – for wanting to find me,” Wardo whispers between kisses.  “I love you back.”  
   
Mark sighs into his mouth, cups his face with both his hands.  “Wardo,” he asks “you wanna run away with me for a while?”  
   
\--  
   
 _Hey Chris,_  
   
 _You should see the sun set on the Gulf of Bothnia!_  
   
 _-M_  
   
 _Dustin,_  
   
 _You think Brunelleschi’s Dome is something?  You should come check out Djémila._  
   
 _-M_  
   
 _Marilyn,_  
   
 _Greetings from Shirvanshahs' Palace!  I just wanted to let you know - you were right about everything._  
   
 _-Mark_  
   
 _Janice,_  
   
 _Hi!  Please start scheduling a shareholder’s meeting for the week after we’re due to arrive back from the honeymoon. I’ll be in touch with more specific instructions when we make it to Singapore! (this is the Blarney Stone, by the way.)_  
   
 _Thanks,_  
   
 _Mark & Wardo_


	7. happily ever epilogue

“You never went to Iceland,” Mark says at the airport in Novosibirsk.  
   
Wardo is half-asleep with his head resting on Mark’s chest.  (Every day, Mark and Wardo learn something new about each other.  This is one of Mark’s favorite discoveries about Wardo: he can sleep _anywhere_ , be it the middle of the desert or a small, rocking boat.  And while he _can_ sleep anywhere, more often than not, he prefers to sleep curled up around Mark, his long arms slung around him.  This is one of Mark’s favorite discoveries about himself: he really doesn’t mind.)  
   
Wardo lifts his head up and blinks a few times, blearily.  “Hmmm?”  
   
“Well, since we’re looking for some place to go, I was just thinking of all the places you never went.”  
   
“ _Are_ we looking for some place to go?”  Wardo stretches out. “I thought we’d decided we were gonna go to Cork and the Blarney Stone and then maybe think about heading … um … back to, well, we were going to stop traveling.”  
   
“Nah, I don’t feel like Ireland any more,” Mark shrugs, “I wanna go someplace you’ve never been.  So, how about Reykjavík?”  
   
Wardo grins and nods his head.  
   
\--  
   
   
 _Home_.  That’s the word Wardo didn’t say.   
   
“Home” is the great unsaid word between them.  Home means that Mark and Wardo stop exploring the world and figure out their place in it.   
   
(it’s been almost three months now: three months of adventure, road dust, and places Mark couldn’t find on a map.  Mark codes on the beaches of Queensland until Wardo’s sandy kisses distract him, Mark has a conference call in Ecuador the day before they head out to the Galapagos Islands, Mark pulls Wardo into a dark alley in Athens, whispers a fragment of Homer before dropping to his knees.)   
   
It’s been almost three months and Mark is happy, _so_ happy.  He and Wardo were at ease with each other from the moment they linked hands and boarded that first plane out of San Francisco.  After two years of correspondence and four years of friendship, picking up as lovers is startlingly easy; they fall into each other without hesitation.  It’s been almost three months and Mark has never looked back.   
   
He’s surer than ever that this is where he was always supposed to be.   
   
Yet despite the ease and intensity of their connection (and it _is_ intense…Mark still marvels at how Wardo arches up into his touch, how Wardo can make him gasp with wanting more) Mark knows that part of Wardo is still afraid that this is all a vacation for Mark.  So he knows that Wardo doesn’t say “heading home” because part of him is bracing for Mark to shrug and say, “Sure.  Let’s start arranging our next visit.  Do you wanna come to California or do you want me to come to Singapore?”  
   
And that means it’s time to change Wardo’s mind.  
   
\--  
   
“Do you know people have been living here since 870?” Mark asks as they stand out on the balcony of their hotel and look out to Reykjavík’s snowy mountains.  
   
When they stay in big cities, Mark insists on nice hotels.  Partially so he can get lots of work done remotely and partially because, damn-it, sometimes he needs a down comforter.  
   
“Um, OK,” Wardo laughs, and wraps his arms around Mark’s waist.   
   
“Did you know Iceland has sagas too?  The _Egils saga_ is from, like, 1200.  Not as good as _The Iliad_ , but what is?  Better than _Gilgamesh_ , I think.”  
   
Wardo laughs again and kisses the top of Mark’s head.  “Uh, are we having Icelandic trivia night or something?”  
   
Mark pulls himself out of Wardo’s embrace and takes both his hands, looking him straight on.  
   
“And did you know that just last year Iceland became the ninth country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage?”  
   
He squeezes Wardo’s hands and smiles.  
   
“Mark,” Wardo gasps, his eyes wide.  
   
“Wardo, I want, oh wait,” Mark lets go of Wardo’s right hand and falls, gracelessly to one knee.  “sorry, I need to do this right.  Wardo – I want you to – I think we should – no, wait.  Okay.  I want to visit every country in the world with you.  I want to tell you all the boring details of my latest ideas about privacy mining while you pretend you understand what I’m saying.  I want you to write me letters even when you’re living in the same house as me.  And I – I want – your postcard from Ireland – that’s when I knew – that’s what I…you’re home to me and I want to be home to you.  So, Wardo, will you marry me?”  
   
In an instant, Wardo drops down to his knees.  He meets Mark’s gaze, his eyes bright with tears.   
   
He pulls Mark into a tight hug.  
   
“Yes, Mark, _yes_.”  
   
\--  
   
Later that night, as Mark is tapping away at his netbook while Wardo reads a novel, Mark suddenly remembers the part he didn’t quite get to before Wardo’s _yes_ cut him off.  
   
“Uh, Wardo?”   
   
“Hmm?” Wardo says, only half-listening.  
   
“I forgot – I, uh.  Tomorrow?  Well, not tomorrow at this point.  Anyway, in about, uh, six hours?  Dustin and Chris and my parents and sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and your Mom and great-aunt and cousin Talia and your friend Eric?  They’re showing up here for our wedding.”  
   
Mark hunches his shoulders and bits his bottom lip.  He hears the loud _clunk_ of Wardo’s book hitting the floor.  
   
“ _Mark_!” Wardo’s voice is strangled.  
   
“Um, well, at least we’ll avoid the hassle of wedding planning?”  
   
\--  
   
They get married less than twenty-four hours after Mark proposed.  The people who matter the most to them are all there with love in their eyes.  
   
They exchange vows outside, in a beautiful valley by a river, both of which have names Mark can’t pronounce.  They slip simple gold bands on each other’s fingers.  
   
When Wardo smiles radiantly at Mark it feels familiar, just like the moment all those years ago when he leaned towards Mark in the Kirkland suite and said, “ _I’m here for you_.”   
   
“We’ve come so far,” he tells Mark, his voice steady, “and the best thing I can think to say is that I still can’t wait to see where we’re going next.  Thank you for the world and thank you for being my home.”  
   
When Wardo clasps a tight hand around Mark’s neck and pulls him close for their first kiss as husband and husband it feels new and exciting.  
   
 _“Home,”_ Mark thinks as they kiss, _“I can’t wait to see where we find it next.”_

_\---_

_[draw me a map that leads me back to you](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/dierksbentley/drawmeamap.html) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this piece is from a [Dierks Bentley song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zFGPYR5mdFM) which quit fits the theme and mood. I also made a [Google Map tracing all the locations](https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?msa=0&mid=zh1WegTTAB48.kVaZUmchgPlE) mentioned. 
> 
> This piece started off as a section of my poor, old WiP _Four People Who Weren't Selling Their Shares (and one who was)_ but when I started considering it, everything changed. The news story about selling shares came out in 2011. I had set my piece and wrote my first scene much earlier than that. How was I going to make that story work over such a long period of time? What would happen in that time? Once I started considering that, I realized I had a whole other story I wanted to tell. 
> 
> So, poor Four People... got back-burner'ed yet again and this story, called at the time And I'd Send You A Letter From There (from the [beautiful letter Brian Krakow writes Angela Chase](http://www.rollerfeet.com/etrigan/wu/fluff/brian.html) on _My So Called Life_ ), was born instead. For a long time, I've wanted to write a story about Mark and Eduardo over many years, a story that could show the fullness of their connection developing and deepening as they grew up. I liked the idea that Eduardo would just ... go, but that didn't have to mean he'd be gone. Mostly, I wanted to write something about the idea of being lost and then found, something about discovery, which, for me, is a resonant theme for M/E. 
> 
> Maybe my favorite romance novel of all time is _My Dearest Enemy_ by Connie Brockway, a story about two characters who've never met who fall in love through snappy and sarcastic letters as he travels the world and becomes famous. Obviously, this story was very inspired it. You should absolutely read it, it's quite wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for The Social Bang and posted to my LJ in September 2011.
> 
> Andrea, [slasher48](http://slasher48.livejournal.com/), not only provided a top-notch, last-minute beta on this during a chaotic time in her own life but she was a constant cheerleader for me and this piece. She's my superstah! [elefante_locura](http://elefante-locura.livejournal.com/) gave me ideas for what this could be months ago and then came in at the last minute and not only helped again but then created the postcards that make this piece come alive in ways I had only imagined. Without their help, insight, and encouragement, this piece simply wouldn't exist.


End file.
